


Palm to Palm

by Lunar_Iris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gloves, Hand & Finger Kink, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, I'm such a sap, M/M, nothing sexual here though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Iris/pseuds/Lunar_Iris
Summary: What does it mean for a nation who has seen and caused so much bloodshed in their long existence to show their hands? America reflects on his slow discovery at how much of a show of affection and trust it is to hold hands with England palm to palm.





	Palm to Palm

**Author's Note:**

> Here I go re-posting more of my work from the Hetalia Kink Meme and FFN. This is one of my personal favorites of my own works, of which I am extremely picky. I guarantee not all my FFN fics will end up over here. I'm a bit embarrassed by some of them now.
> 
> Note:
> 
> 1\. Historical references are relatively vague, but the last bit takes place during WW 1.
> 
> 2\. England is a male, not a delicate little white lilly, and does not have the body--or hands--of a 9 year old boy, and that is how I depict him.
> 
> Now, please enjoy some hand/finger worship while I go off and reflect on why I have so many usuk fics where America lavishes his attention on very specific parts of England's body. *scratches head*

America just didn't understand—couldn't understand—why England's hands shook and his cheeks reddened on those rare occasions when he slipped his small, awkward fingers into the older nation's large muscular hand. He didn't even bother to think about it when he was a young colony.

He just saw those thick, weather-roughened hands and his own just gravitated toward them of their own freewill. It was natural. It was the place they should be.

“Very well,” England sighed deeply. “I will hold your hand, lad.”

England's hands were so rarely bare and free from his gloves. And, oh, what a collection of gloves England had! Fingerless gloves; uniform gloves; gauntlets; driving gloves; fencing gloves; fancy gloves of patent leather, suede, cowhide, satin, lace, silk; shiny riding gloves that matched his boots and favorite mare, Scarlet. The nation's collection of gloves was almost as extensive as his collection of hats and boots. He could have his hands covered for any and every occasion.

When he was young, America didn't like the feel of those gloves, either too stiff or too soft or too slippery, on his skin when he tried to hold England's hand. America's hands always seemed to reach out to England. He would tug at the gloves, a silent plea to have them removed just so he could feel the extraordinary, curious mix of smooth skin and rough calluses. Hesitantly, England would indulge him, and he would revel in the comfort that came from the gesture, grinning up at the thin, awkward smile given him in return.

When America was an adolescent colony, still young, but becoming involved with battles and skirmishes on his land, he began to don gloves of his own. They were to protect his hands, England said, to keep them protected from injury. That was fine with America. England wore gloves. England was strong and brave. He wanted to be just like England. So, America wore gloves too.

America loved England's hands. He did. He loved them, as he loved England himself. On the rarer chance that England revealed his hands during his increasingly infrequent visits, as time went on, America would reach out to take his hand for whatever reason he could think of. Just as he wanted to connect their hands—to touch, caress, admire, esteem—he wanted to connect with England. However, he also wanted those hand to touch, caress, admire and esteem his in return. America would reach out and England would recoil. After much slyness and pouting, America would manage to divest England of his gloves and run his fingers over knuckles, fingers, wrist and palm delighting in their potency as granted to him from being the mighty British Empire.

“Very well, America,” England chuckled in that nervous way he was wont to do when he finally acquiesced. “I'll hold your hand until you fall back to sleep.”

America donned gloves to fight for and against the differing people of his lands. England's touch was continually denied him, those hands that kept him fixed with an iron fist. He rebelled and fought against those hands.

One day, in the midst of a rainy battle in bitter conflict against the forces of the British army, America removed his uniform gloves, but he continued to fight. He stared down England and pointed his musket at him. Very nearly shot him. He could feel the weight of the gun, heavy in his hands, and the way the wet metal irritated his fingers as he clutched it tighter in effort not to shoot.

And, England surrendered.

For years, America was no longer privy to those strong hands, and the more dominant and stubborn parts of him no longer wanted anything to do with them.

America became involved in his own wars. He fought and he killed. Eventually, he understood the true reason so many different nations wore gloves. It took a long time for true understanding to come, despite all the wars in which he involved himself to curse him with that damning understanding. He nearly killed himself, split himself in two, learning that lesson. Learning why England hid his hands. America hid his hands now too.

They met again, as the years came and went, but both kept their distance. Hands remained gloved and closed to all.

America never forgot—sometimes dreamed about—the comfort, the strength, the sensuality of England's hands.

On a cloudy day, America stepped off a plane, greeted to rumbling in the distance. England was not among those who welcomed him. He sought him out, and found him in a private hospital room, right arm—sword and gun hand— heavily and hastily wrapped in bandages, bare for all the world to see: cut, bruised, burned. The other hand was still shielded in his heavily stained and tattered uniform glove. He had not been there long.

England averted his eyes. “Hello, America. What brings you here?”

“You do.” He sat down and moved to take the less injured hand, but England withdrew it from the bedding and attempted to tuck it underneath the quilt. It was one of England's own making. For however many times America mocked him for his hobbies of sewing, knitting, embroidering, whatever it was that England did with needle and thread, he loved to watch, it was the longest that the older nation ever went with gloveless hands, apart from sleeping.

America reached out to take his hand again, gently. Still, England winced. “I came to see you,” he said in an effort to comfort and coax the hand out from hiding. His touch was purposefully gentle, so it would not disturb any of England's wounds. “Please? Give me your hand. Please, England? Let me hold your hand.” He had never before asked directly to hold his hand.

England looked away again.

“Why is your glove still on?” America stared; the glove was caked in dried blood. So, hesitantly, he removed his own gloves, slowly baring his palms and fingers to the other nation as he did, and tucked them in a pocket. “May I?” He reached out again.

“I wouldn't let anyone else,” England whispered, voice raw and scratchy. “No one else.”

“Be back in a jiffy,” America said as he dashed across the room to find and fill a bowl with water.

“What the hell is a jiffy?” He heard England grumble.

“You know what I meant.” America ambled back to the bedside and sat down slowly.

Carefully, he set the bowl on the bed between them and, even more carefully, lifted England's hand and set it on his lap. “At least this water is warm, right?”

“I suppose.”

“How did this happen?” America gently cleaned the blood from a cut near his wrist with a cloth. The medics had only cared for England's more serious injuries.

“How do you think it happened?” England's hand flinched as though in pain, but America was barely touching him. England's hand was just resting in his lap.

The dried blood gone, America slipped his fingertips down England's gloved palm feeling the pull of the leather against the backs of his fingers. England shivered. With deliberate care, he tugged at one finger, then another and another, until the glove loosened.

When the wrist was fully exposed, America pressed a kiss there.

“W-what are you doing?” England sputtered, turning red to his ears.

He pulled again at the glove and uncovered the heel of his hand and brushes his lips against the skin there, as well, and up toward the thumb as he slowly and carefully removed the glove, unsure if the leather hid any more injuries. It was mostly untouched, save for a few small burns here and there, and a bruise on the back of his hand. What caught America's attention most were the cross-hatches and blotches of white scars; even though America had his own scars, there was something alluring about England's, especially those he remembered seeing in his youth. He pulled the glove until the palm showed completely, and kissed it's center.

“S-stop that this instant,” England stuttered again, but his tone was hesitant, as though he was quite unsure of what he really wanted, and he did not try to remove his hand from America's loose grip.

“But I...I finally get to really look at your hand,” America whispered.

“Why would you want to do that? They are nothing to see. Not worth attention. They're ugly.”

“No,” America gazed down at the hand he held, mesmerized. “I...I've always been fascinated by your hands.” His words were fast, deliberate, desperate. England's hand still looked strong like it did when he was younger, but now it seemed smaller. He noticed that England had long fingers, dexterous, and that his palm was thick. America's own were a bit thinner, his fingers broader and less graceful.

In one fluid movement, he pulled the glove off, finally freeing those graceful fingers that he longed to hold.

“I love your hands,” he breathed, lips pressed to the backs of England's fingers.

England breathed a sharp inhale. “You exaggerate. You couldn't possibly.”

America shook his head, lowering the hand to look at it again, but continued to run his fingers over palm and fingers.

“My hands are unworthy of such ardor.”

“Then you do them a great disservice. I've always wanted to just...just look at them, touch them.”

“They are tainted, many times over with bloodshed,” England's smile cut, full of bitterness.

“So are mine.”

“Not as much.”

America shrugged. “Always fascinated by all the things they may have done, you know. What you've done. So strong.” He increased his grip, but it was hardly perceptible. “I wanted to have hands like yours. Always wondered what all they could do.”

Once again, when America looked back up, England was flushed pink, but his expression had softened.

“They are rough,” England murmured—but he meant I am rough.

“My hands are rough too.” Again, he showed England the palm and back of his other hand, all the scars of his own he had collected. “But they know how to be tender,” America whispered and he pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “The last time I held your hand, you were the one doing the holding.” He shifted their hands so they were lined together, emphasizing how close their hands were in size now and how differently they were shaped. “Can we hold hands palm to palm now?”

“Yes,” England smiled, intertwining their fingers, and moved his bandaged hand to rest in America's outstretched, free one. “I would like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, in fact, a poor nod to the bit in "Romeo and Juliet": "saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss" (Act I, scene v). But, that bears only a little meaning to the fic itself and the reason it is a footnote only. The original request was this: it’s a huge thing for older nations if their bare hands get touched, because their hands shed so much blood. It’s a giant show of affection for them.


End file.
